


Sight

by Nerdanelparmandil



Series: Fëanorian Week - March 2019 [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Background Fëanor/Nerdanel, Fëanorian Week 2019, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-18 16:50:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18123917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerdanelparmandil/pseuds/Nerdanelparmandil
Summary: After a spat with his father and brother, Carnistir holes up in his room and Nerdanel tries to comfort him. What starts as a way to simply calm down becomes a ritual between mother and son that brings them closer over the years.Or: Carnistir and Nerdanel are extremely perceptive, more than they let on.Written for Fëanorian Week 2019.





	Sight

Carnistir heard a knock at the door of his room, so gentle that it could belong to no one else but his mother. He felt her calming presence reaching out to him, soothing and comforting, as only she could be when he managed to become so angry as to slam the door to his father’s face – and Tyelko’s.

His brother had a way of getting on his nerves like no one else really could, with his cutting grin and careless demeanour. As if he were untouchable. Yet, he was! Tall, broad, strong, every bit as intimidating as their father, a face so pretty it made everyone turn heads as soon as he walked in the room, showing off his fair hair bound in intricate plaits he himself did, no one would ever say a word against him. Not that there was much to tell; Tyelkormo spent most of his time wandering Valinor with his faithful hound and shied away from the court of Tirion.

Carnistir envied him most of the times. How could he ever compare, as dark and oversensitive as he was! Still struggling to find his calling, Carnistir spent hours at his father’s side, trying to at least pretend he cared for forge work or the cutting of gemstones. He much preferred their language lessons, though Carnistir did not excel even in that, not as much as Tyelkormo did, or Makalaurë. (He did not even consider Maitimo. There was not a thing in which their elder did not excel).

Worse than his brother’s smugness, however, was his father’s short temper. He did not like it when his sons answered back, when they openly told him that they did not _care_ for what he was telling them or had them doing, that they would not do as he said – all of those things adolescents eventually say to their father, at least once in their life. These were Maitimo’s words every time Carnistir went to him to complain, in any case.

Knowing that his squabbles with father were normal – that everyone of them had had them at some point, and at the end of the day there were no hard feelings; indeed, father was even pleased that his sons were learning to stand up for themselves – did not make it any more easier.

 

He buried an annoyed groan in his pillow, “What is it now?”

“Let me come in?”

Could he say no to her? She would enter his room whether he wanted it or not.

“Yes, come in.”

His mother clicked her tongue as soon as she saw him spread on the bed.

“At least take off your shoes and change your clothes, or you’ll dirty the sheets.”

“Mh,” was his eloquent reply, face still hidden.

She huffed and he felt the mattress dip, where she sat at his side.

“I cannot leave you three alone, can I?” her fingers gently combed through his hair, moving them away from his face, exposing his flushed cheeks. He peered up at her and saw her amused smile as she tried to fight back a full grin. He rolled his eyes, but his own lips curled in answer.

“What had you so worked up, my dear?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Many things seem stupid, if we look back at them after a while. It doesn’t mean that your anger isn’t justified.”

“It’s just that…Father wants me to do things as he says, because he thinks he is always right. He always has something to point out, to correct, there’s always an ‘I told you so’ that he sneaks in every time and it drives me crazy!”

She hummed, her smile turning knowing, “That’s your father alright. He’s not the gentlest sometimes, but he’s not saying these things out of malice, my dear. He is teaching you and he is being demanding, because he knows you can do better. He wants the best for you, and the best doesn’t come out of nowhere, but from hard work and countless mistakes.”

“I _know_ , mom. It’s not even really that, I can see what he wants to do. It’s just that…I’m not really interested, no matter what. And you know that when something doesn’t interest me, then I’ll just hate it in the end.”

“What would you prefer to do, then?”

Carnistir smothered his answer in the soft pillow.

“I did not catch that.”

With a sigh, he turned around, looking anywhere but at her. “I don’t know.”

She regarded him intently, gently biting her lips, “I was thinking…maybe a change of teachers will do you good.”

“You think so?”

“A new perspective could help you figure things out,” she shrugged.

“I don’t know…”

“It’s a thought; just consider the possibility. There’s no rush.” Her reassuring tone calmed him somewhat, although the prospect of changing teachers – and possibly moving away, finally out of the house to pursue different studies – was daunting. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask,” she patted his nervous hands, stopping his fidgeting on the hems of his shirt. “So, we have sorted your problem with father. Now, what did Tyelkormo do?”

Carnistir covered his face with his hands, “I don’t want to talk about him,” he whimpered.

“How’s that?”

“Mom!”

“Come, don’t make such a fuss, you’re not a little child.”

“He just…he gets on my nerves. He doesn’t have to say anything, he just laughs at me.”

“Laughs at you? Why?”

“Hell if I know,” he scowled.

“Carnistir!”

“Sorry. It’s just that he is here a week and gone the next, and what does he do while here? He hovers, comments on things – he is worse than father! With that stupid perfect face, but he is annoying and arrogant. As if he knew everything better than anyone, who does he think he is?”

An indulgent smile curled her lips, as she answered, “Your older brother.”

“Well, that’s his problem! I don’t have to listen to him. Makalaurë is not like this.”

“No, he and Tyelkormo are two opposites. And you are right, you don’t have to hang on every word your brother says, but have you thought on why he might be behaving like this?”

“Yes, he thinks he is better than me!”

“Carnistir, I won’t have you say such things about your brother,” she scolded.

“It’s true!”

“No. It isn’t. And if you tried to control you temper a little and tried to understand him, you would see his effort to get closer to you for what it is. He is always beside you when he is here; he follows your lessons, even if he had hated them when he was the student; he tries to give you advice in the only way he knows – the same way your father does, which, of course, irritates you. He wants to impress you, wants you to look up at him as a steady presence, someone you can go to because he is closer in age than Maitimo; he is trying to overcome the distance between you two that is the inevitable result of his absence. Maybe he is making mistakes along the way, – I will talk to him about his behaviour, don’t worry – and your characters might be incompatible, after all, but he is making an effort. Can you appreciate that, at least?”

Carnistir felt his face burn in shame, but he kept silent, mulling his mother’s words in his head. He was not convinced, though he had not considered the idea of Tyelko trying to form a bond with him.

That was often the case with his mother – she had a way of making them see, understand things under a new light, with the guidance of a few simple words, spoken gently in her matter-of-fact and at the same time slightly teasing manner. It was the opposite of what Fëanáro would do, with his quick and dense explanations that left one almost disarmed, as if stunned by something too complex to grasp in one sitting. His father’s speech had no patience, left no time for breath; it relentlessly demanded all the attention Carnistir could give and left him exhausted at the end.

Still, he could not say to have inherited his mother’s calmness in speech, for he tended to get too incensed, his words flowing rapidly as if pausing for breath would rob them of their weight. It made his arguments with his father rather interesting.

Looking back at their squabble after dinner, he could admit that the only one who had not seemed really angry had been Tyelko. He had looked certainly annoyed and his words had been sarcastic, though without bite.

Nerdanel sighed and ran a hand through her thick hair. “Your father is still quite irritated by this whole thing. He and Tyelko had argued after you left – your brother has taken your side, even if he was hurt by your words. Why don’t we go out tomorrow, mh? Just you and me. We can go hiking, if you’d like.”

“Really? Can we?”

“Of course we can. Your father certainly won’t stop us.”

“No, I mean…don’t you have work to do?”

“My work can wait. You can’t stay coped up in this room the whole day tomorrow, just to avoid your father. A day apart, to clear both your heads, will do you wonders!”

Carnistir was delighted at the prospect and he grinned, “Yes! Of course.”

“Good! Get ready, then. We leave tomorrow at the fifth hour, alright?”

He could not wait, and his mother seemed just as eager as him – if not even relieved – to stay away from the house for a whole day. Carnistir had a fleeting thought then, one that he tried to chase away as soon as it formed, before it could take root in his mind.

 

Was she relieved at the idea of not seeing father for a day?

 

*

 

Their hike became a regular thing. They went out, exploring the mountains, whenever they felt the need for some time alone, to recharge and find peace within themselves. They never had a set date, though they did not need it. Carnistir had moved to Tirion, where he worked and studied at court, sometimes beside Maitimo and other times even under his grandfather’s keen eyes.

The two would visit regularly their parent’s house during the days of holiday. During these visits, Carnistir and Nerdanel took some time for themselves, even as their family grew. Carnistir’s suspicion that she needed the time away from everything and everyone was confirmed every time he saw how she seemed to rejuvenate when they reached the peak of the mountain and looked at the world spreading below. Her eyes would become brighter, her smile wider. First with Atarinkë, then with Ambarussa, she had had almost no occasion to enjoy the outdoors as much as she would have liked – not even with Fëanáro. Either one of them was busy with work or with looking after the children.

So, she relied on him – and Fëanáro on Tyelkormo, until their younger brothers were old enough to travel with them.

Of all of them, only Tyelkormo seemed to have had an inclination towards her art when he had been still a youth, before abandoning the craft completely once he discovered the rush of excitement that came with hunting beside the Huntsman himself. Carnistir knew that his calling did not lie in sculpture, but he could appreciate it – especially the physical work that it involved. This he shared with Nerdanel, who seemed to be delighted to have someone of her close family who would listen to her ideas and new projects. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“What does father say?” he asked.

They had been hiking for a couple of days now, taking an old route that started from the capital and went up the peaks until it reached the roots of the mountains on the other side, facing the great Sea and the city of Alqualondë. It was an easy road, well travelled and fairly frequented, yet it was one of Nerdanel’s favourites, for the view from the top was one of the best in all Aman.

She had been telling him of her latest project, an abstract piece that was meant to represent the movement of the water’s surface when it played with the winds of Manwë, which, apparently, had something to do with love, of all things. That was what Carnistir had gathered from all of her philosophical explanation of the concept behind the piece. His question broke her chattering and she raised her brows in surprise, though she could not conceal the resignation that her drooping shoulders betrayed at the mention of Fëanáro.

“What should he say?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know, didn’t you talk about your doubts with him? He knows more than me in this matter.”

“Bah, at this point you know enough to help me,” she said, waving a hand around as if dispelling a silly thought, “Besides,” she continued with a grin, “I only need someone to listen to me rambling, not an opinion.”

He would have recognised the quip for what it was: a light-hearted comment, typical of the happy woman she was – or had been. Because Carnistir could easily see behind the façade she tried to present, and the sight was not pleasant. His mother was tired, sad and, he would say, grieving.

Although he had been away from the house for long years now, he had felt the rift that seemed to widen with each passing day between his parents. He never heard an argument, never a voice raised in anger or annoyance, when he visited. If they argued, it seemed, they would do so in the privacy of their bedroom or away from their sons’ ears. Yet, Carnistir, and his brothers with him, did not miss the way their parents moved around the house, sometimes as if avoiding the other, other times as if they were out of sync, mismatched, uncoordinated.

It hurt.

It was painful to watch their mother retire in her room at the end of the day, firmly closing the door, only to see their father stare longingly after her, yet swallow his hurt and hide in his workshop when he should have rested. It was painful to see their mother being desperate for a moment of her husband’s attention and uncertain about her place in the house. They still loved each other dearly, that was plain to see, only, some mechanism between them seemed to have broken and Carnistir had no idea how they could fix it.

If the time he dedicated to her during their outings made the joyous spark return in her eyes and smile, he would happily accompany her for however long and as many times as she needed.

In silence they made their way until the top of the mountain. A milestone informed travellers of the height of the route, the miles that separated them from Tirion and those needed to reach the Telerin city, as well as the year of construction. At its bottom there were the usual greetings shared among travellers. It was not the first time he had passed this very same stone (and it probably would not be the last), yet, only now did he stop and notice that it was right at the same distance from both cities. It was a liminal place, a bridge or a border between two cities, two kingdoms, two peoples. To the west, Tirion and Valinor, enclosed behind the Pelori. To the east, Alqualonde, the Sea, and…beyond.

The gaping horizon in front of him felt immense and terrifying, yet Carnistir seemed unpable to escape its pull.

“Do you think we will ever return there?”

“Across the Sea?”

“Yes.”

Nerdanel frowned, her gaze intent on the line where the sky plunged into the sea, as if she were looking for something he could not really see. “I don’t think we will be sundered forever from our kin across the sea. But whether this will be because we will go back or they will finally cross the Sea, I cannot say.”

She turned to him, then, studying him in the same way he had noticed Nelyo doing, when he was trying to figure out the mind of the person in front of him. His mother’s eyes, though, had not the unsettling brightness of his brother, and Carnistir was terribly glad for that.

“Would you want to go?” she asked.

“What for?”

She shrugged, “Knowledge, I suppose. To see new places, meet new people… Maybe, only to see the world lit just by the stars of Varda and not by the Trees. I can’t really imagine it, you know?”

Neither could he, if he were to say the truth. What would the sky look like – how _had_ it looked like to the first Quendi that awoke at Cuiviénen, without any other source of light except for the stars? _What would I do to know it first-hand!_ No story would ever be sufficient.

“Didn’t you and father travel to the edges of Aman, where the light of the Trees grows fainter?”

“Yes, and it is fainter, that’s true. But it’s not absent, not completely.”

“Mh. Well, maybe, I’m not sure. If we’re all going, then, yes, I will come too. But as it is…the stories say Middle Earth is a dangerous place. Grandfather says so.”

“Indeed,” was all she said.

“I…I am curious, though. If some of our kin chose to stay back, something must have been worth it, right? They could not all have been…”

“Cowards?”

“Yes. Or, I don’t know, as faithless as our stories make them.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have their version of the story.”

“Yet. Maybe one day they too will come here.”

“So you do listen to your father when he tries to lecture you,” she chided him with a smile.

Carnistir shrugged, though his cheeks reddened slightly, “Sometimes the things he says are interesting,” he muttered.

Nerdanel laughed at that, her eyes sparkling with an ancient joy. “That’s part of his charm.”

His blush spread to his ears, “I don’t really want to know, mom.”

“Of course not,” she snorted.

 

*

 

Many of his travels in Beleriand were spent alone, wandering and looking for new paths on the mountains that rose at the border of his own land. Always did he remember the long days spent with his mother, with a fondness that had his heart aching with longing and regret, wishing that she could be once again at his side.

And under the stars, the nights when the moon was new and did not light the sky, he would look up above, crying for what they all had lost, yet relieved that his mother was not there, witnessing what they had become.


End file.
